


Imaari's Tale

by callmecirce, Warbond (callmecirce)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecirce/pseuds/callmecirce, https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecirce/pseuds/Warbond
Summary: Half-Elf Imaari has lived her whole life in a druid enclave, in a town where she is despised as a half-breed.  She decides to take her life into her own hands at last.
Kudos: 5





	1. Part One: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First time playing D&D, so of course I had to write up a background thing for my character, Imaari. There is at least one more installment after this, setting up my character, but I'm not sure if I will try to write up our sessions once we get done world building and start to play.

“Let me guess,” Andeana said dryly from the doorway. “They started it.”

“Andeana!” Startled, Imaari spun to face her, guiltily hiding the bloodied cloth behind her back as though her bloodied face wouldn’t give her away. When she realized this, Imaari dropped her hands to her sides and lifted her chin. She was no child to be scolded, and would not apologize for defending herself. _Even if fighting back makes life harder for everyone in the Enclave?_ her conscience prodded her. She ignored it. “Yes,” she said, responding to Andeana’s question. “They did.”

“Imaari,” she sighed, having taken in the younger woman’s disheveled belligerence with a shake of her head.   
  
Imaari didn’t blame her. The confrontation with the other elven youths had left one eye swollen nearly shut, her tunic spattered with drying blood from both a split brow and cut lip, and as she stood there, she felt fresh blood beginning to trickle from her nose. Again. Andeana strode forward to take the rag from Imaari’s hand with a sound of exasperation. 

“At least there’s nothing broken this time,” Imaari offered, her voice muffled by the cloth as Andeana dabbed at the fresh blood.

“At least,” Andeana agreed, inspecting Imaari’s face more carefully. “I doubt Rathil would be willing to heal you again, so soon after the last time.”

Imaari scoffed and dropped inelegantly onto her narrow bed, her back propped against the wall and one leg stretched out on the mattress. Rathil, who was ancient even by elven standards, was the best healer in the Rallathian Enclave. He also happened to think that Imaari ought to simply accept her lot in life without complaint so as not to strain the relationship between the Enclave and the larger community of Tessington. Given that ‘accepting her lot’ meant tolerating a great deal of abuse from that community, Imaari flatly refused to do so and Rathil was rarely inclined to help her. “No, he wouldn’t," Imaari agreed. "I still have plenty of salve, though, and that’s all I’ll need this time.”

Andeana gave her an arch look as she rinsed the bloody rag in the washbasin and handed it back. “You ought to have a full jar! We just made it week.” 

“I like the way it smells,” Imaari said innocently, pressing the damp cloth to her face. The cool water felt lovely on her abused skin, though the cuts stung a little. She held it there for a few moments, then used it to gently wipe away what blood and dirt she could. The rest, she knew, would have to wait for a proper wash.

“This isn’t going to stop, is it?” Andeana asked quietly when Imaari leaned forward and tossed the soiled rag back to the wash stand. 

Imaari’s gaze shot to her, but it wasn’t really a question and needed no answer. Imaari had been telling her as much for years now. Instead, she arched her brows as she sank slowly back against the wall, her regard steady on Andeana. 

“I know you want to leave,” Andeana went on, delving into their well-worn argument in spite of Imaari’s silence. “To go out and see if there is a place for you beyond Shindwaud, but the Humans may treat you no better.”

“They’re unlikely to treat me any worse,” Imaari said, sighing. Apparently, they were going to have the old argument after all.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that it’s not going to get any better here.”

“Give it more time--”

“Twenty years,” Imaari interrupted. “We have been having some version of this conversation for twenty years, ‘Deana, and nothing has changed. Nothing. Humans are still hated, and I am still treated like a diseased criminal by all but you and the Elders. I will not waste my life waiting for what will never be.”

“The Elders are sympathetic, Imaari, if you will just be patient--” 

“I am done with being patient!” Imaari shouted, leaping to her feet. Imaari’s loss of temper was nothing new, but never before had she turned it on her adoptive mother. The uncharacteristic aggression shocked Andeana into wide-eyed silence. Imaari modulated her volume but not her tone, and pressed her rare advantage. “The Elders cannot compel trust or acceptance, Andeana. The others will never accept me. You all but admitted as much just a few minutes ago.”

Andeana’s brows lowered, sadness completely overtaking her surprise. “If you leave the Enclave--” 

“If I leave the Enclave, then I have at least a chance at a real life.”

“If you leave this place, child, you give up the protection of the Enclave. You will have no protection at all.”

“The border with Arch is not more than a few days’ travel from here, and the Sister Lakes settlement not far beyond that. I can travel with the merchant train, take advantage of their numbers to stay safe.” Imaari’s eyes narrowed as she went on. “And I’m not a child, Andeana, especially not by Human standards.”

“You’re not a Human, Imaari!”

“I know,” she replied softly. “But I’m not an Elf, either.”

Andeana flinched, but it was a truth she needed to face. No matter how much they both wished that Imaari had been her natural daughter, she was not. She was a half-Human orphan who’d been lucky enough to end up in an Enclave of aging druids rather than on the merciless streets. “Very well,” Andeana said at last. Then she slipped from the room with no more than a sad smile, leaving Imaari off-balance. 

Imaari hadn’t at all expected her to capitulate so easily, and it made her wonder whether Andeana had accepted the necessity even before coming to check on her. It was what she wanted, what she had wanted for a very long time, but her victory felt surprisingly hollow.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imaari's journey begins quietly, but goes suddenly sideways with the first Humans she encounters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardwin/"Scars" is my husband's (Warbond's) character.

“He’s dead,” Imaari said stupidly, drawing her fingers from the man’s throat and sitting back on her heels.

“I told you,” said the gruff voice above her. “We need to go, now.”

Imaari looked up from the body stretched before her to stare at the broad Human man standing over it. His scarred face was set in grim lines and impatience tightened his voice, but his eyes shone with...excitement? She blinked. “Go?”

He gestured vaguely in the direction the other Humans had fled, and she followed the movement of his perfectly normal hand with bemusement. He’d just used that hand to kill a man as easily as she might swat a fly, yet not a speck of blood stained it. That seemed wrong, somehow.

“They’ll come back, with more men and the constabulary besides. If we’re lucky, they’ll only want to arrest us.”

“Us?” Lothien echoed incredulously. “You’re the one who killed him!”

“Doesn’t matter,” the man replied flatly, turning back towards his modest house and speaking over his shoulder. “You’re Elves. The folk around here wouldn’t think twice about killing you first and not bothering with the questions after.”

Lothien, the leader of the merchant band, stalked after the man in outrage. In some part of her mind, Imaari thought that was rather foolhardy but Lothien didn’t seem to fear the scarred Human. She stayed where she was and her eyes fell again to the dead man, which occupied the far greater portion of her mind. A quarter of an hour earlier that man had been hale and virile, a rural farmer in his prime. Now he lay like a broken doll in a pool of his own blood.

The reality of her situation struck Imaari all at once. She stood suddenly and backed away from his body, her panicked brain trying to identify the moment that things had gone wrong.

Imaari had joined the merchant train just as she’d told Andeana she would, and until this morning, her journey had been utterly unremarkable. She’d rebuffed a few unwanted attentions, pulled her own weight, and the sidelong looks she’d received had been more curious than hostile. After two days of slow travel, they’d arrived at a campsite used regularly by Elven traders. She’d heard the merchants’ guards discussing it the night before as they ate around their fire.

Apparently, the locals here were particularly distrustful of Elves and until a few years ago, it had been dangerous to travel directly through this area. Then, for some reason, whoever owned this land had offered it as a place of safety to any Elves traveling legitimately in the region. Since the traders no longer had to skirt the area, they were saved a full day of traveling through empty countryside to avoid conflict. A few of the older guards who remembered what it was like to deal with the Humans around here were deeply skeptical about the safety of this place, but the younger guards had brushed off those concerns as the paranoia of old age.

Now, Imaari knew that those more experienced guards had been right to be wary. Their whole camp had been roused just after dawn by nearly a dozen angry men, all brandishing farm tools like weapons and demanding that the elven group move on immediately. Lothien had used every bit of charm he could muster, but it made no difference. The bristling group became ever more aggressive.

Imaari had looked to the guards, waiting for them to step forward and do their jobs, but they had not. The older ones had even restrained the two youths who had tried. She hadn’t understood at the time, but she thought that perhaps she did now.

If she had not stepped forward so boldly to challenge the Humans, then Lothien might have been able to buy them enough time to pack their train and move on without more than a few bruises, but she had interfered. The injustice of the Humans’ accusations had infuriated her. This sort of prejudice was exactly the reason she left Tessignton, and she had done so with such hope that things could be better. 

That  _ Humans  _ would be better.

But, no. Her first encounter with Humans had been defined by prejudice. Their treatment of Lothien had echoed exactly the way the Elven youths of Tessignton had treated her, and it had been too much. She had lost her temper, rushed in without thinking, and given the Humans exactly what they’d wanted: an excuse for violence. 

Their leader, a wiry young man wearing a stained jerkin, had backhanded her hard enough to knock her to the ground with ringing ears. Only then did she recognize the gleam in his eyes. A quick glance around showed that same light in all of the eyes trained on her, and she had known then that they intended to make an example of her. A glance over her shoulder showed that she would receive no help from the other Elves. She saw regret in a few of their faces, but most of them actually looked relieved. And why not? She was only a half-Elf and not one of their company. That she’d unwittingly offered herself as a sacrificial lamb meant that perhaps they could get away unscathed.

Part of her had wanted to give in to panic--she could hold her own against a few opponents, but not against ten-- but she was too angry and too stubborn. She gripped her stout quarterstaff more tightly and planted her feet, glaring. It was all the invitation those men had needed.

The sound of their fight had been enough to draw the scar-faced man from his dilapidated house, and it was a good thing. The Humans had been playing with her, taking turns at fighting and jeering, but she was not the easy victim they’d assumed. It made them angrier. If the scarred man had not intervened, she’d be the one lying crumpled on the ground, beyond even Rathil’s ability to heal. 

But he had come, had placed himself between the Elves and the Humans, and tried to diffuse the situation.

“This is my land,” he said. “These people have my permission to be here; you do not.”

“These  _ Elves _ ,” spat the one in the dirty jerkin, “are not allowed anywhere near our village. You don’t have the authority to say otherwise. Go back to working your pathetic farm, old man, and let us deal with this infestation.”

“No,” Scars said flatly. 

“No?” scoffed Dirty Jerkin, and the other Humans laughed. 

Scars frowned. “Leave.”

The others laughed again. “We’re not leaving, old man. You should get out of our way, unless you want to throw your lot in with this whore Elf.” 

Scars’ frown deepened to a scowl, but he said nothing. He stared levelly at the other Humans and for several long moments, no one said anything. The smiles began to waver under his scrutiny, and a few shifted uncomfortably. Their support was waning, and Dirty Jerkin knew it. His eyes narrowed. “Last chance.” A few more beats of silence and then, “Have it your way.” Dirty Jerkin lunged. 

Scars anticipated the move and neatly sidestepped, tripping him as he went by. Dirty Jerkin stumbled, but managed to save himself from sprawling in the dust. He turned with a growl and lunged again, was tripped again, but could not recover himself again. A murmur went through the gathered crowd, among the Elves and the Humans alike, and Dirty Jerkin’s angry face flushed deeper in humiliation.

He stood, yanking a dagger from a boot sheath as he rose. He held murder in his eyes, and it seemed to trigger a change in Scars. His languid calm fell away, his eyes sharpened, and his muscles tensed. Imaari recognized it as the deadly focus of a predator preparing to strike, but everything was happening so quickly; she couldn’t process anything quickly enough to react.

Scars struck before Dirty Jerkin had taken more than a step. His fist took the younger man in the gut, but rather than disengaging Scars allowed his momentum to carry him forward, following Dirty Jerkin to the ground. Jerkin’s head struck the ground with a sickening thunk just before Scars landed atop him, plowing his other fist into the man’s face. His head hit the ground again, paired this time with the awful sound of crunching bone. Scars froze, his fist raised to strike again, and the clearing went absolutely silent.

“Fuck,” he said, and all of that lethal intent was suddenly just...gone. As one, the rest of us looked from him back down at Dirty Jerkin and saw what he’d seen: not only had his face been utterly ruined, but blood spread beneath his head in a growing circle. 

After that, it had taken only a look to send the rest of the men on their way. Some had been angry, some had been afraid, but none of them had been willing to challenge the scarred man. They could probably have overcome him, if they had all attacked at once, but at least a few of them would have joined their friend on the ground before it was done.

Rising voices and the stir of activity brought Imaari back to herself. Dirty Jerkin still lay where he’d fallen, but all around her the merchant camp was packing up. Suddenly afraid of being left behind, Imaari hurried to do the same as the arguing voices moved closer. 

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Lothien was saying. “We have no reason to abandon our goods and go haring off into the middle of nowhere when we have people waiting for us in Sister Lakes.”

“Suit yourself,” Scars replied. “But they’re going to come after you. You sure that your people in town will be willing to stick their necks out to keep yours out of a noose?”

Lothien did not answer immediately, and she suspected that idea of a noose had shaken him as badly as it had shaken her. When his answer came, though, it was firm. “We are well-known, respected merchants. We’ve been trading this route through Arch for years, and many of the nobles are quite dependent on our goods.”

Scars grunted indifferently, but Imaari went still. The constables would want to hold someone accountable for the murder, to appease the angry mob if nothing else. The merchants might be safe, but what of her? She had no connections in Arch, and no connection to anyone in the merchant train. If they were willing to let the mob have her, what would stop them from handing the half-breed outsider over as a scapegoat?

Nothing. Nothing at all. She could take her chances with them, and would likely make it as far as Sister Lakes with the group, but what then? Stay and hope? Slip away just outside the city and strike out on her own? Imaari was naive but not stupid; neither option was likely to go well for her. 

What if… Well, he had said “we” earlier, hadn’t he? And from what she’d heard of his conversation with Lothien, he’d been trying to convince the Elven merchant to go with him rather than going on along their route as planned. Would Scars, or whatever his name was, be willing to take just her?

And if he was, what assurance did she have that this option wouldn’t be as bad, or worse, than going with the Elves as planned? Imaari bit her lip. Scars was an unknown quantity, but at least he had stepped in earlier, and kept those men from killing her. It was more than the Elves had done, and it decided her.

* * *

Lothien sent the guard away with a flick of his fingers, then allowed himself a satisfied smile. The troublesome half-breed had gone with that Human Hardwin fellow, just as he’d thought. It wasn’t the simplest solution to his problem, but it did have a neat sort of symmetry. Lothien liked symmetry.

Of course someone from that backwater village would come after them, but they would reach the city before that someone could catch up. 

Of course, that someone would go to the authorities in Sister Lakes, and of course those authorities would have to do something about it. The war had not been so long ago, after all, and there were too many bad memories for them to let such an accusation against Elves go unpunished. 

But Lothien and his good people were just as appalled as anyone at the morning’s violence, so of course he will waste no time before reporting the incident to the authorities himself. He will construct the narrative of events, and that narrative will be confirmed as fact when the villagers come looking for blood. 

It would have been simpler if he could hand the girl over to them himself, and he would have done exactly that if she’d chosen to stay with their group. She was clever, though, that half-breed. Lothien suspected that she had gone with the human because she knew what waited for her in Sister Lakes. He might still have taken her with him if he hadn’t also suspected that Hardwin wouldn’t allow them to take her against her will.

More than suspected, really, and it was a shame. That Hardwin had allowed them to use his land had cut a day from their travel time each way and thus increased their profits. That option will be closed to them when the man is arrested and hung with the girl, if it had not already been.

And besides; the girl was the one who had sent things spinning out of control, and Hardwin was the one who’d done the killing. It was only right that they be the ones punished for the crime.

* * *

Imaari shifted her pack on her shoulders and frowned at the man walking just ahead of her. He reminded her a bit of gruff, laconic Rathil, actually. But this man wasn’t old at all, no matter what Dirty Jerkin had said. His skin was weathered, his face scarred, and steel gray threaded liberally through his dark hair, but he had the brawny build that came from hard manual labor.. He looked like he’d lived a hard life. As a farmer? No, probably not. At least, not just a farmer. She’d never seen a farmer fight the way that he had, and he carried himself with the same bearing she’d seen in the Shinwaud Elite Guard. 

So a fighter, of one sort or another. And apparently accustomed to being alone. He hadn’t said a thing to her since he’d agreed to let her go with him (his terse “if you can keep up” tossed over his shoulder without slowing) and the silence was about to make her insane. She’d lived her entire life in the serene quiet of a druid enclave, and she was still used to more in the way of conversation than this. Maybe he was waiting for her? Imaari hustled a bit, so that she could walk beside him. “So, um. I appreciate you letting me come with you.” She looked at him expectantly, but he only glanced at her. “I’m pretty sure,” she went on, “that the merchants were going to hand me over as a scapegoat, if I went with them.” 

“Probably.”

“I”m Imaari, by the way.”

“Hardwin.”

“So, where are we going?”

“Towards Tessignton.”

Imaari stopped in her tracks. “What?”

He glanced back at her, a slight frown drawing his brows together. “Towards Tessington. We’re close to the border, and the authorities in Sister Lakes are unlikely to follow us into Shindwaud.”

Hardwin hadn’t stopped with her, and Imaari ran to catch up with him again. “But I just came from Tessington!”

“Then it should be easy to get you home.”

“But I don’t want to go home!” Imaari winced. That had sounded embarrassingly close to a whine. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I left Tessington to escape the prejudice there. I have no intention of running back to it at the first bump in the road.”

Hardwin shrugged. “So don’t go back.”

Imaari opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut again. There was nothing to argue against. “I won’t,” she said lamely, and wasn’t surprised this time when Hardwin had nothing more to say. She cast about for something else to talk about, and remembered that she had never broken her fast that morning. “Do you have food in your pack?” she asked.

He shot her another frown. “I have jerky and dried fruit, but I intend to save it. I will teach you to eat off of the land, but it will have to wait until we’re across the border.”

“No, I--I have food,” Imaari said, bristling. “I can feed myself. I was offering to share my breakfast.”

Hardwin shrugged again. “Already ate.”

Imaari glared. “Brute,” she muttered, digging a bit of jerky from her own pack. If Hardwin heard her, he was polite enough to ignore her and neither said anything more until they stopped to make camp that night. 

Imaari would have been willing to stop sooner, but she hadn’t needed to and there was no way she was going to suggest stopping before he did. She’d spent the day in thought, as there’d been nothing else to occupy her mind, and she realized that Hardwin must see her as a weaker creature in need of help and protection. He wasn’t totally wrong; Imaari had no illusions about her situation. She was a sheltered young woman out in the wider world for the first time, and she needed someone on her side. That was why she’d chosen to follow him in the first place. She was not, however, weak, stupid or inept. 

He would learn.

The quiet was another matter. Well, not the quiet. She could spend days on end alone in the mountains around Tessignton, keeping company with all those in Rillifane Rallathil’s domain. It was different when she was with people. She missed the camaraderie of her relationship with Andeana, the easy conversations she’d had with Corrilane and sparring with Galadril. Even with the merchant train, she’d at least been able to observe the interactions between the others. Hardwin was just--a blank wall. Imaari felt more isolated traveling with him than she did when traveling alone, and by the time they stopped just after dusk, she just couldn’t take it anymore.

He’d stopped abruptly, eying the clearing they’d just entered, and nodded. “We can camp here, then cut back to the main road in the morning.”

It was a good place to camp, and Imaari dropped her pack gratefully. “You think it’s safe for us to travel on the road?” she asked, frowning.

“Should be.” Hardwin lowered his own pack and rummaged through it. “I’m going to set a few snares. Stay here.”

Imaari rolled her eyes. He had definitely assumed she was useless, but when he returned it was to find that she’d already prepared and set a fire, gathered what early berries she could fine, and retrieved water from a nearby stream. He stopped for a moment to take in her efforts, grunted in approval, and bent to unclasp his bedroll.

Imaari gave a mental shrug. At least he’d noticed. “You were in the army?” she prompted, and at his nod, she asked, “for how long?”

Hardwin gave her a repressive look, but seemed resigned to her need for conversation and answered her. “Twenty years.” 

“Retired?” Another nod. “Did you buy that land when you got out?”

He scoffed, shaking his head, and Imaari wondered what it was about that question which had finally inspired something like emotion. “My parents’ land.”

“Ah.” She picked idly at her blanket, thinking that through as he spread his bedroll. He’d left his family home behind that morning, possibly for good; did that bother him at all? He hadn’t hesitated, and had even seemed ready to leave. “It didn’t take you long to pack this morning,” she observed.

“I keep a pack ready. Not much else to take.”

She digested that as well. “Where will you go now?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged, settling onto his spread blankets and draping his wrists over his bent knees. Then he surprised her, and spoke again without prompting. “You’re not new to this.”

“What?” Imaari’s fingers stilled on her bedding, her eyes lifting to meet his. “Oh. No,” she said. “I spent as much time in the wilderness as I did in the Enclave.”

“You’re a druid,” he guessed.

“More or less.” Imaari sighed. “The druids took me in when I was a baby and taught me what they know, but I never cared enough to take it very seriously. Rathil says I’m a lost cause.”

Hardwin’s brows shot up. “Rathil is still there?”

“You know Rathil?” 

“Yeah, I know Rathil. A lot of my men went to him for healing, myself included.” Hardwin chuckled dryly, his gaze losing focus as he fingered the scar bisecting his face. “Rathil is the reason I didn’t lose this eye.”

Imaari’s eyes widened. “During the war, you mean?” She’d heard about the infirmary the druids had run during the War of Desperation, but no one had ever been willing to talk about that time. Of all the people she might have met in Arch, what were the odds that she’d end up traveling with someone who had been there? 

Hardwin’s gaze sharpened on her again, and his expression shuttered. “Cut myself shaving,” he muttered, rising. “Time to check the snares.” 

Imaari snorted at the obvious lie, but couldn’t really blame him. Even the people she knew well didn’t want to talk about the war. Besides, that had been a lot of words for the obviously taciturn man, and she would be grateful he’d had anything to say at all.

His traps yielded only a small rabbit, but it was better than more dried rations. She insisted on cooking it, since he’d already trapped and skinned the thing. He shrugged his indifference, then watched her prepare their dinner in silence. 

For some reason, it didn’t bother her as much now as it had earlier. She worked quietly, first to prepare the meal and then to clean up when they’d finished. She slipped away long enough to dispose of the bones a safe distance from camp and to see to her personal needs. 

Hardwin banked the fire while she was gone. It was full dark by that point, and clouds obscured the moonlight. Had she been fully Human she might have had a hard time finding her way back in the dark, but her dark vision was nearly as good as that of a full Elf. Imaari had no trouble identifying the low glow of the coals, and could clearly see Hardwin seated on a large stone nearby.

“Get some sleep,” he said when she was close enough, jerking his chin toward her bedroll. “I’ll take first watch.” Imaari nodded gratefully, and was asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes. 

Hardwin woke her around one. She’d slept deeply for the first time since leaving Tessington. She wondered at this, but only briefly. She’d decided to trust Hardwin, and her intuition obviously agreed. Everything would be all right, she thought to herself.

Everything would be all right.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go horribly, horribly wrong for Imaari.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Apparent character death. Blame my DM.

Nothing was alright.

Imaari sat in her solitary cell, staring at the worn stone wall in front of her, and tried again to figure out where things had gone so terribly wrong.

That second morning with Hardwin had started out well enough, but they’d passed a troupe of Sister Lakes Rangers only an hour after rejoining the main road into Shinwaud. Hardwin had gone stony the moment he saw them, and Imaari’s stomach had sunk to her toes, but they initially passed by with only hard searching stares. 

“Let’s go,” Hardwin had murmured when they were out of sight. “I have a bad feeling about them.”

Sure enough, the Rangers doubled back almost immediately and taken both Hardwin and Imaari into custody. She’d tried to resist, but only briefly.

“Don’t fight it,” Hardwin had said. “It’ll be alright.”

But it wasn’t. The Rangers had been unnecessarily rough in spite of Imaari’s and Hardwin’s cooperation, and few people they’d encountered since had treated them any better.

The young man appointed as their defense in Sister Lakes was one of those few. “Unfortunately for you,” he’d told them, “one of the Rangers who brought you in lost his entire family in an Elven raid during the war. He was only too glad to make sure that his brother would be adjudicating your case. It...doesn’t look good for you.”

“Imaari was not involved in the killing,” Hardwin said, frowning.

“She’s an Elf,” their Defender had said sadly. “The judge will find you guilty on that basis alone.” Imaari’s heart had sunk, and it must have shown on her face. “I know,” he’d said consolingly. “But I’d rather paint an accurately bleak picture than give you false hope.”

As it turned out, though, he’d actually underestimated just how badly it would go. Not only was the judge predisposed to hate them, not only had the Ranger been there to testify to her initial resistance, but they’d actually brought Lothien in to testify against them. Imaari had felt a brief, misguided flare of hope when she’d seen him, but it had died a quick death.

“They were vicious,” Lothien had said, staring at her in open abhorrence. “Taunting the poor man to draw him out away from the other townsfolk, then beating him brutally in front of everyone.”

And as if that testimony hadn’t been damning enough, the prosecutor then went on to paint a lurid portrait of Elven insurgency and terrorism. Hardwin, the poor old man, had been duped by the half-Elf whore into joining her terrible cause. Truly, there was no other option but to send them both to their deaths--or at least, to life in the main prison complex in Arch.

The judge, predictably, ate it up. He actually smiled as he gave the guilty verdict, then offered the ‘merciful’ sentence of life in the Arch prison.

That was the last time Imaari had seen Hardwin. They’d been removed from the courtroom through different doors immediately after sentencing. Imaari had been sent on to Arch that very afternoon; if they’d done the same for Hardwin, she hadn’t seen him at any point on their journey. 

Imaari had been utterly alone then, and she’d been utterly alone since being thrust into this cell days ago. Or had it been weeks? Imaari hadn’t bothered to count. She was struggling not to give in to despair.

Her life now consisted of these four walls, a bare cot, and a scanty meal delivered at dusk each day. No contact with other people, no opportunity to feel the sun on her face or the wind on her skin or the pulsing life of the earth beneath her feet. She couldn’t even think about living the rest of her life in this fashion. If she did, the walls pressed in on her even more tightly and black spots crowded her vision.

If only she had listened to Andeana! She might have chafed at the realities of her life back in Tessington, but at least she’d had a life to live. Andeana had tried to warn her that things could be worse, but she’d been so sure of herself. So certain that she was moving on to better things. Well, “better things” had lasted only a matter of days before it had all gone awry. 

Days of freedom, for a lifetime of incarceration. Yes, her life had gotten so much better.

The clanking sound of a key turning in the outer lock was followed by the thud of footsteps down the corridor. Imaari moved to the door curiously, and heard other prisoners in neighboring cells doing the same. It was still morning, so far as she could tell; no one ever came down this corridor except in the evenings, when their daily meals were delivered and chamber pots were emptied. This was the first time that there had been any deviation since the day she’d arrived. Did that mean they were bringing in another prisoner?

To her surprise, the footsteps halted right outside her own door. What--?

“Against the wall, stone eater!” 

Imaari complied, eyes wide, as a key grated in the lock and the heavy cell door swung in on creaking hinges. Hope and fear warred in her chest, leaving her weak kneed. What was happening?

Heavy footfalls crossed the small cell, and then a large hand shoved her roughly into the stone. “Against the wall, I said!” 

Imaari swallowed her whimper, but could not stop the tears that sprang to her eyes. Why had she even bothered with the hope? Whatever was happening, it was unlikely to be anything good. 

As if to confirm her thoughts, the guard at her back grabbed each of her wrists in turn and bound them behind her, uncaring that he’d wrenched her shoulders painfully in the process. Then he jerked her back, away from the wall, turned her to face the still-open door, and shoved her forward. 

“Prisoner 849?” asked another guard, his tone bored and his attention on the scroll in his hands.

“This is her,” replied the one at her back.

“Proceed,” said the Scroll Guard, nodding. “Then come back up for the next one.”

Rough Hands grabbed her arm in a bruising grip and led her down the corridor, through the outer door, and through a warren of dark hallways that all looked the same to her unfamiliar eyes. He jerked her to a stop outside a large holding cell, one unlike anything else they’d passed. It was huge, with three walls made of the same stone as her own cell and the fourth made entirely of heavy iron bars. Several people milled around on the other side of that wall, each looking as confused as she felt. 

Another Scroll Guard stood near the bars, next to what she suddenly recognized as the door. “Prisoner ID?” he asked in the same uninterested tone the last one had used.

“Number 849,” Rough Hands said.. 

The second Scroll Guard scanned his page, then nodded. “Very well. Put her in.”

Rough Hands jerked the ropes from her already abraded wrists as yet another guard unlocked the door. No sooner had one of them shoved her through that door, than the door was slamming shut behind her.

Imaari took in her new surroundings in a daze. Fear had her almost lightheaded, but she knew that she needed to at least try to keep her wits about her. This new cell was dim and stale, as her old one had been, rather than dark and dank as she’d always imagined dungeons to be. A slight air current raised the fine hair on her arms; she rubbed at them, and looked around to see that others had felt the breeze as well. Some rubbed at their arms, like she did, while others held their hands out experimentally to search for its source. 

“Prisoner ID?” the Scroll Guard said again, and Imaari turned back to see that another prisoner was being checked against the list, then shoved into the communal cell.

“How dare you?” demanded the new addition, rubbing his wrists delicately. “When my guild hears of this, you will all be seeking new positions!”

Imaari’s brows rose. This man, whoever he was, still wore his own well-tailored clothing. How had someone like him ended up in this cell?

“Imaari?”

“Hardwin!” Imaari spun towards his familiar voice with a cry, and wrapped him in a hug that he clearly hadn’t expected, and just as clearly didn’t appreciate. She released him quickly and stepped back, too happy to see him to feel properly embarrassed. “You’re here!”

“Hm.” Then he frowned at her scraped cheek. “You good?”

Imaari touched the spot and grimaced. “Good enough.” He grunted, and she shrugged. “Any idea what’s happening?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anything like this, but they had some reason to put all these people in here together. Whatever it is, it’ll be soon.” He glanced down at her, then went on in an attempt to reassure her. “I’m sure It’s going to be okay.”

Given that things hadn’t exactly worked out the last time he’d said that, it wasn’t as comforting as he’d likely intended it to be. Imaari was kind of glad for it, though. Hope kept trying to claw its way to the surface; she’d needed the reminder that hope was a dangerous thing.

More people had been thrust into the cell, all of them looking about in confusion or murmuring quietly with another person, and it was beginning to seem crowded. The well-dressed man was still shouting, alternating between demands for someone’s supervisor and dire warnings about the consequences of treating him so poorly. Another man stood off by himself, leaning against the bars at the front of the cell and glaring with particular malice at the Scroll Guard. 

“What’re ya in for?” someone asked, his voice overloud, and a momentary hush fell across the cell.

“I wonder if they’re finally gonna get me for fucking the magistrate’s wife,” answered another voice at the back of the room. A low ripple of laughter met his flip response, but Hardwin frowned.

“Shut up!” yelled the Scroll Guard, not even looking up from his scroll.

“No fucking way,” Hardwin murmured, and she turned to follow his gaze. It was locked on a man near the back wall. He glanced down at Imaari, making sure she had seen, then began to slip through the crowd towards the other man.

“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” Hardwin asked when they were close enough.

The man turned, blank-faced, and she was shocked to see the pointed ears of an Elf on a man obviously built like a Human. She felt her mouth fall open; she knew that there were others like her, other half-Elves, but she’d never met one and had never expected to. 

“Oh yeah,” the man said, nodding in recognition. “Yeah, ah, Hardwin, right?”

“Yeah. You’re, uh...” Hardwin trailed off, frowning. “Um.”

“Daetrik.”

“Daetrik,” Hardwin repeated, nodding as if the name had been on the tip of his tongue when clearly it had not. 

“Hey man.” Daetrik rocked back on his heels. “It’s uh, it’s been a long time. What, uh--”

“Oh, fuck, fifteen--” Hardwin broke off awkwardly, looking as if he regretted the impulse that had led him over here. Imaari had to stifle an almost hysterical giggle. “Was it the Low River Valley? Around there somewhere?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Unlike Hardwin, Daetrik seemed to be amused by the awkward exchange. “Somewhere around Shinfael Gift, wasn’t it?”

“Shut the fuck up, people!” Scroll Guard shouted again, and the low hum of conversation became apparent only in its absence.

“Hey Ansel,” someone said into the quiet, his voice nasal and strangely accented. Imaari recognized him as the one she’d noted by the bars earlier, glaring at the guards. “I don’t suppose you can spare one of those toothpicks you're always carrying around, eh?” 

“Shut up, Skeet,” answered another of the guards, scowling.

“What, not even a cigarette for an old friend?” Skeet said, sounding ironic.

“I said, shut up, Skeet!” The guard, presumably Ansel, reached through the bars to grab the man’s shirt and yank him forward, slamming his head into the bars as he repeated himself. 

Skeet shook his head dazedly, grinning in spite of the blood trickling from his split lip.

“I demand to be released at once!” Ansel glared at the well dressed man, a threat clear in his expression, and the man took a cautious step back from the bars. “This is not how it is done,” the man muttered.

A few of the other people agreed, but the atmosphere had turned oppressive. There were so many people crowded into the cell now that it seemed to have shrunk and Imaari could no longer feel the breeze she’d felt earlier. The approaching sound of heavy footsteps became audible; All at once, she was terrified once again. 

“Someone’s coming,” Skeet said, waggling his brows.

Daetrik snorted.

“Shut the fuck up, Skeet!” Ansel shouted just as the newcomer entered the room, carrying a torch. 

The man, who was obviously superior to the other guards, raised a brow at the suddenly red-faced Ansel.

Skeet snickered, drawing the Superior’s attention, and made a rude gesture. 

The Superior ignored him, and passed the torch off to another guard. When it was set in its sconce, he nodded to himself in satisfaction. “All prisoners, against the wall!” he said loudly, in a tone that demanded obedience.

There were too many people for all of them to find a place against the wall, but they all tried to. Imaari found herself pressed against it with Daetrik and Hardwin to either side of her, and the well-dressed man standing shoulder to shoulder with Skeet in front of her. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she was glad to be screened from view.

She could pretend, at least for a moment, that she might get lost in the crowd and just...disappear.

Too soon after that--Imaari assumed it was when everyone had moved back far enough to satisfy him, but couldn’t see anything past the men in front of her--she heard the grating of the key in the lock and the sound of many booted feet on stone. “You,” the man began. “You, you, you,” he continued, and the woman beside Skeet stepped away from the group. With her gone, Imaari could see that the man was pointing, choosing people to break off into another, smaller group. Each of these people had their arms pulled behind them, their hands shackled with something that looked like metallic rope.

“Son of a bitch,” muttered the well-dressed man, his dismay clear. “Those are mine!”

What? That made no sense. Imaari glanced up at Hardwin, but he looked confused as well. She went back to watching the selected prisoners. When there were ten of them, each one shackled and accompanied by his or her own guard, the Superior nodded. “Go.”

“Go where?” asked Well Dressed, ignoring the people who filed out of the cell and focusing on the man in charge. “Where are they going?”

The Superior ignored him, and began selecting more people to come forward. As with the last group, all of them were cuffed, and when there were ten, led from the room in a single file line.

Then, they were among the last ten people in the room and Imaari knew what to expect. 

“It doesn’t look like they’re going to kill us,” Daetrik murmured sotto voce. “We might as well go along with it.”

Imaari did see that any of them had any choice in the matter, but Hardwin nodded his agreement. “It doesn’t look like a firing squad. I’m good with that.”

“Shut up, stone eater! Get over here, you’re next.”

Daetrik’s jaw tightened at the slur, but he complied easily enough.

They took Well Dressed next. She thought she saw him palm something that glinted like metal, just as the guard secured his cuffs. Perhaps it had just been the glint of torchlight on the metal of the cuffs, but she didn’t think so. He looked too satisfied with himself.

Then it was her turn. This guard, though far more gentle than the last one had been, made sure to tighten the cuffs enough that even she couldn’t slip her slim hands free. Her heart sank.

“You sure I can’t have one of those toothpicks?” Skeet asked behind her, his accent making all of the words seem drawn out. He was the last one to be cuffed; had they been avoiding him?

“Get him out of here,” the Superior said with a grimace of distaste, in an apparent confirmation of her assumption..

Imaari wondered why as the guards led them through another series of dark corridors, because it was better than contemplating her current situation. It was the sun that brought her back to herself. The blindingly bright sunlight stung her eyes after the dark of the building, but she welcomed it, taking in the endless blue of the sky over a large field of terraced green. 

_Outside_ . She was finally _outside_. 

Imaari drew in a deep breath, savoring the feel of fresh air in her lungs. It brought goosebumps to her skin, cool and crisp and refreshing after the close stench of the cell. She could smell the grass, hear the cries of sea birds in the air, and almost taste the salt of the sea. She felt invigorated. 

Her euphoria lasted only for as long as it took her to notice the row of newly-built gallows ranged across the opposite side of the park. She counted ten of them, and knew it was no mistake that the prisoners had been brought out in groups of ten. _At least I will die in the sun_ , she thought.

Her group was herded to stand in a tight knot behind the first two with all of the various guards ranged around them. The gallows, their bright wood a stark contrast to their somber purpose, loomed tall, casting a pall over everyone. 

“Hey,” Hardwin said, making her jump. “They wouldn’t have bothered with the good cuffs if they were going to just kill us.”

Daetrik scoffed. “They can take ‘the good cuffs’ off of us pretty easily when we’re dead.”

“Shut up,” yelled one of the guards.

Imaari swallowed thickly, her eyes darting around in a panicked search for some avenue of escape, and saw Well Dressed sidle forward. The movement arrested her gaze. He moved again, obviously trying to be discreet but just as obviously working at the mechanism of his cuffs with a narrow shim. Imaari glanced back at the guards. If she had noticed him, it was only a matter of time before one of them did.

To her surprise and relief, they all seemed so confident in their numbers that none of them were paying much attention to the people they’d been set to guard. Still, she didn’t want him to be caught and shifted to help obscure their view of him.

Two more men strode out onto the field, drawing her attention away from Well Dressed. They wore uniforms, but were markedly different from the ones worn by the guardsmen.

“You recognize either of them?” Daetrik whispered.

Hardwin grunted a negative. “You?”

“No. I don’t even recognize the insignias.” 

“Hm.”

The two men spoke briefly with the Superior, who nodded. Then one of them stepped forward, unrolling an official-looking scroll, but was interrupted before he could do more than open his mouth.

“Hold!” called an officious looking old man, striding hurriedly onto the field. “Hold a moment! You cannot conduct official business without the oversight of a Royal Magister. It is a good thing that I am here, else you could not have proceeded. Here, give me the Royal Writ.” The two men in the odd uniforms shared an irritated look, but neither argued when the Magistrate took the scroll. He began to read, paling as he scanned the lines, and Imaari’s stomach dropped yet again. “This--this is unconscionable!” he stammered, appalled. “There’s no way this has gone through the proper channels, no way it was approved.” He looked up, scowling, and rerolled the parchment. “You will not proceed until I return,” he said with every expectation of being obeyed, then turned and went back the way he came.

The officials shared another look, then sent two of the guards after the Magister.

“Fuck,” Skeet said. “That’s not good.”

Well Dressed stopped in his fiddling to gape at the guards, who’d begun hauling the first group of prisoners up onto the platform. Wails split the clean morning air as the condemned people realized the certainty of their fates and sobbed out their pleas for mercy. 

“Please, no!” shrieked a woman right in front of where Imaari stood. Tears streaked her dirty face, and her complexion had gone ashen. “I’ve not even had a trial! Please, you can’t do this--” The guard trying to drop the noose over her head cuffed her, and the desperate flow of words cut off. After that she just stood there, quietly weeping. Similar scenes played out all along the platform and the horror of it all tore at Imaari’s mind, eclipsing her own terror. 

This was _wrong_. Imaari knew, somehow, that few of these people were actually guilty of any crimes. None of them deserved this. Why was it happening? Who was responsible? And how under Rillifane’s blue sky had she wound up in the middle of it? 

Imaari closed her eyes, willing herself to forget what she’d seen in those faces just before the dark hoods had been dropped over their head. She couldn’t forget, though, and couldn’t shut out the sounds. The squealing hinges, creaking ropes, and cracking of bone hammered her mind. Imaari felt each death, could almost see as each life was snuffed out before its time. For a long, frozen moment, Imaari was held immobile.

“This is unspeakable,” shouted the man beside her as he began to work more frantically at his cuffs. Well Dressed, Imaari thought, remembering. The spell holding her broke, and she turned her back to his. She’d seen what he was doing, and realized that he already had one side of the cuff almost loose enough to pull his hand through. With a bit of help, he would be free.

“I am a valued member of the Artisans’ Guild in Arch City!” the man went on, keeping everyone’s attention on his face. “You have no idea the kind of trouble you will pull down on your heads if this situation is not rectified immediately! My Guildmaster will have your hides if not your heads!”

Skeet resumed his heckling then, distracting the guards further. Imaari wasn’t sure if he did it to help or just because he enjoyed jeering at the guards, but she was grateful for it. The loosened side of the cuff slipped again, and Well Dressed wrenched his hand free.

“Hurry,” Hardwin said, straining at his own bonds. “They’ve almost finished clearing the bodies.”

Well Dressed didn’t stop his litany, but continued to rail at the guards as he worked at Imaari’s cuffs. It went much faster, with his hands unencumbered and hers so much smaller, but neither dared bring their hands to the front and risk being caught.

“Hey, smaht guy,” Skeet said, nudging Imaari aside as the next group of prisoners was led up to the gallows. “Back to back.”

Unfortunately, what little luck they’d had ran out. It seemed only moments later when the guards came back for them, the gallows already clear and waiting for its next set of victims. Skeet was still securely bound, and they were too exposed. 

Well Dressed panicked.

Someone yelled, “He’s loose!” and the guards surged forward as a single unit, arms outstretched. Time seemed to slow again, as it had when the first of the prisoners were hung.

Imaari could see that Daetrik was trying to cast a spell of some sort, but for one reason or another, conjured nothing. Hardwin strained at the iron ropes again, groaning with exertion, but was forced to relent with a gasp of pain. Three guards had successfully subdued Well Dressed. Skeet spat in the face of another, while a fifth reached out to take her own arm.

 _No_ , Imaaari thought, her entire being rebelling. “No!” she screamed, darting away from the man just as his fingers grazed her skin. 

“Aw, shit,” he said. “She’s loose too!” 

She could hear the thudding of his footsteps behind her, could hear it when more joined the chase. She had no idea where she was going, no idea how to get out of this walled yard, but she ran on knowing that to stop was to die.

It wasn’t enough. The man at her back leapt, grasping at her, and managed to overbalance her. She went down hard, panting. “No,” she gasped out as several hands grabbed her roughly, hauling her to her feet. 

“No,” she moaned as they set the noose around her neck.

“No, no, no,” she thought as the hood came down over her head, its strange, cold touch making her shiver.

Nonononono!

Imaari felt a sharp, indescribable pain, and then--nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end, I promise.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imaari wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See! That wasn't the end!

Imaari drifted. Sometimes, there was only a black, timeless void. At others, she felt swept along in a velvety dream she couldn’t make sense of. Over and over, she had the vague notion of a strange workshop with books and odd devices arrayed on tabletops and desks, always lit by a large window of startlingly bright blue sky and filled with the rising and falling of distant voices.

“Again?” she heard once, quite distinctly. It was a woman, sounding both bewildered and frustrated. “Why does this keep happening?” 

Then the voices receded again, enveloped in the inky blackness. Imaari floated.

* * *

Footsteps, then, a  _ thud scrape _ , and the same woman’s voice. “Wake up now,” it said. “It is time to wake.” 

After that, Immari’s consciousness began to rise. It was a slow resolution of consciousness, as in a too-dark room after sleeping too heavily. She could feel her body but could not make it move. It felt strangely weighted, as if by a heavy blanket, but rather than feeling warm and comforted she was pressed in on all sides with a damp chill. Imaari’s fingers twitched, and she felt the movement on her shoulders.

_ Thud scrape _ , she heard again. It was a little closer this time. Imaari’s eyes slitted open, or she thought they did. There was no change in what she could see: there was nothing but blackness, like before. Was she really waking at all?

_ Thud, scrape _ .

Closer again, and accompanied by voices heard as if from underwater. Imaari’s fingers tightened, her head rolling groggily from side to side, and her eyes opened wide as memory and realization washed over her. 

She’d felt the shifting of cloth over her skin as she’d moved, damp and clinging but unmistakable, and her arms had been crossed over her chest like a corpse laid to rest.

_ Thud, scrape _ .

Because she’d been hung. They’d killed her, wrapped her in a shroud, and buried her in the cold earth. Imaari was dead.

Panic crawled up her throat as her mind struggled to understand. She had died, hadn’t she? But if she were dead, how could she feel the warm puff of her breath against the damp shroud? How could she feel the shifting press of the earth above her?

_ Thud, scrape.  _

Had they buried her  _ alive _ ? Her breath came in short pants as she struggled, mindless with panic.

_ Thud, scrape. Thud, scrape.  _

The sound was close enough now that some small part of Imaari’s mind recognized it as the sound of a shovel, thudding into the ground and then scraping as it lifted. Digging her up?

The voices had come closer as well, moving more quickly than the shovel. They were men, Imaari registered dimly. Angry men. “They fucking  _ what _ ?!” someone said, his voice suddenly very close, until it began to fade again. “What kind of bullshit…”

_ Thud, scrape, _ coming now from all around her. _ Thud,  _ and then an unmistakably pained groan, somewhere to her left.

“I think I found one,” said another man’s voice from the same direction. “Come help me dig him out.”

One of the shovels came closer still, and she felt the earth shift above her. A bit of light began to seep in through the shroud. Something hard grazed her side, drawing a shriek. Having now found her voice, she gave in to sobs as she struggled, squirming as much as the tightly wrapped shroud allowed her to.

“There’s another one here,” she heard directly above her. Another man. There was a soft thud, as if the man had thrown his shovel to the side, and hands began to seek her body amid the loose soil. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s get you out of there.” The weight fell away from Imaari’s body, the dim light brightened, and she felt hands lifting her shoulders. “I’ve got you.” 

Imaari stilled, no longer fighting, but she continued to weep.

“Another one!” came another shout, from another direction.

“Hold still,” said someone else, a woman this time. “I don’t want to cut you by mistake.”

“What? Cut me?” came the shrill response. This voice sounded vaguely familiar. “What is this? I-I was hung!”

“Please sir,” the woman said. “Please try to be calm.”

“Gods,” came another familiar voice. “We’re in the fuckin’ Paupers Pit.” 

“Who is managing this operation? I demand answers!”

Hands pinched the fabric over her face, pulling it away from her skin, and she saw the point of a knife tear through it. When the hole was large enough, the blade disappeared and was replaced with dirty fingers which rent it wider still, opening a window to the cloudless, star-speckled sky above. Imaari gasped in the clear night air, reminding herself that she was alive to feel it, and began to struggle anew once the hole was large enough to free her hands. She shoved the shroud back from her face and wriggled free as quickly as she could. Escaping the shroud wouldn’t erase the memory of this experience, but she wanted to distance herself from every part of it that she could. 

“I guess hangin’ didn’t take,” someone observed dryly off to her left, and Imaari recognized Hardwin’s voice easily. 

The man who’d cut her free rose and leaned down to offer his hand and she took it gratefully. He frowned at her, though, and when she’d regained her feet, he leaned forward to look at her more closely. The moon was full, but it was the only light available and human eyes were not as good as hers “Aw, shit,” he said, looking dismayed. “A fucking half elf?”

Imaari took another step back, suddenly afraid again. Did he now regret helping her, now that he knew her heritage? They were in a large graveyard, in a large section of freshly turned earth.  _ A mass grave _ , she thought, shivering. She looked back at the place where she’d lain and saw bits of pale cloth showing through the dirt in several places. She shivered again. She did not want to go back to being a corpse. 

The others all turned to look more carefully at the people they’d exhumed, and one of them cursed. “There’s another one here,” he said. Imaari followed the sound to see a huge man jerking his thumb at the figure beside him. 

“Yeah, well, fuck you too!” he shot back.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” the man protested, turning. A scar pulled one side of his mouth into a perpetual frown, and disappeared beneath the high folds of his cloak.

“That you, Daetrik?” Hardwin asked. He stood next to his grave and the woman who’d dug him out, pressing his wrappings into a tight ball. He was almost looking in the right direction, but not quite.

“Aye,” Daetrik replied, and Hardwin’s gaze turned accurately towards it. 

“What you got?” he asked. “I can’t see shit.”

“Sir, please,” someone interrupted. It was first the woman, her hand set placatingly on Well Dressed’s arm. “If you will just be patient, the Lieutenant--”

“Wait a minute,” cut in one of the voices she’d recognized earlier. Imaari turned, seeking its owner. Skeet still sat amid the ruin of his own shroud, staring. He looked at Well Dressed, but pointed at the woman. “Who the fuck is this?” He looked at her, then around the group. “Who the fuck are you?!”

No one answered. Imaari looked from one person to the next, searching. There were one or two people near each of the ones she’d recognized from that morning (had it only been that morning?), each of them wearing dark cloaks and showing varying degrees of frustration, compassion, apprehension and chagrin. Two more people stood off to the side, arguing heatedly. They were distant enough that she had no idea what it was about; only the occasional curse or exclamation was loud enough to carry. Behind those two, she saw a tall man with dark tattoos stalking through the cemetery with a large package perched on his shoulder.

“This is a travesty,” Well Dressed announced, his pompous voice recalling Imaari’s attention. “Buried not even three feet below the surface!”

“Could have been worse,” Daetrik said. “It could have been six feet below the surface.” 

“I’m just glad it wasn’t a cremation,” Skeet said.

Hardwin and Daetrik chuckled darkly, but Well Dressed looked aghast. “Can’t a man get a proper burial?”

“So, you boys military?” Daetrik asked in the following quiet, his tone conversational. “What unit you with?”

A few of them started. “Yeah, a few of us are,” the scarred man confirmed. “Marines. You?”

“Yeah, I served,” Daetrik said. “The uh, the Elven Wars.”

“Oh, shit! Where at?”

“North of Tessington, up by Shinfael Gift.”

“No kidding,” the man said.

“Enough of this bullshit,” Hardwin said at the same time. “Sergeant?” He barked the title, a senior officer addressing a subordinate, and the man at Imaari’s side straightened in surprise. Hardwin’s eyes narrowed on the man, knowing his reaction for the confirmation it was. “Hey man, level with me,” he said cajolingly, changing tack. “What the fuck is going on here, Sarge?”

The Sergeant glanced around at the others, then cleared his throat. “Wait for the lieutenant,” he said, nodding toward the pair who still stood arguing. As if on cue, the taller one held up his hands in the universal sign for stop and began to make his way towards them.

He was about the same height as Hardwin, though not as broad, and carried himself with a definite air of authority. He was probably in his forties, his dark hair threaded with grey and already receding from his brow, with tanned skin and a grim expression. Like the others, he wore a dark, nondescript cloak. It shifted as he moved, giving glimpses of unadorned leather armor. 

“You the Lieutenant they told us to wait for?” Daetrik asked when the man stopped in front of them. 

“I am,” he confirmed, taking in all of his people with a glance and indicating that they should join him with a nod of his head. They gathered at his back.

Skeet pushed himself up from the ground as they moved, and took a few steps forward. “The fuck is going on here?” he demanded.

The Lieutenant turned to him, frowning, and then paused. “Wait,” he said, his frown deepening to a scowl. “I know you. I fucking know you!” He turned sharply to the man he’d been arguing with, who stood behind him, and pointed at Skeet. “Who is this? Torch. Lantern! Someone, get me a gods-damned light!”

Several people moved, scurrying to obey his orders, and Imaari shielded her eyes instinctively as light flared to life in darkness.

“Who the fuck is this?” the Lieutenant repeated.

The man at his back, surprisingly short and older than the others, shuffled forward to frown at the hard-faced Skeet. “I’m...not sure,” he admitted.

The Lieutenant looked at Skeet. “Who are you?”

Skeet smirked goadingly. “What’s it to you, buddy, eh? I asked you first.” The man’s face darkened, and Skeet snorted. “Listen, guy. I fuckin’ died a while ago, right? And now I’m heah and you dug me up and while I appreciate the helpin’ hand, maybe you could clue me in on what the fuck is going on. Then we can exchange pleasantries.” 

Daetrik nodded in agreement. “The man has a point, Lieutenant.”

“Yes!” Well Dressed agreed, nodding emphatically. “We were just poorly executed and poorly buried. What is the meaning of this?”

The Lieutenant hung his head and took a deep breath. “You’re right,“ he sighed, looking up. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Let me start over.” He paused, considering his words. “Arch...needs you.”

Daetrik scoffed. “Arch needs a lot of things.” 

“That’s a stupid way to start.”

The Lieutenant ignored Daetrik, but shot a dirty look at the heckler among his own people. “The whole thing is stupid.” he said angrily. “Listen, you have been--” He stopped abruptly, awkwardly, as if struggling for the right words. “You have been chosen to serve as part of a fighting force to help root out Arch’s rivals.”

A beat of silence followed that announcement, and Imaari felt her mouth fall open. Of all the things she might have expected, that had not been one of them.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Hardwin said, incredulity drawing the words out more slowly than usual.

“Was the killing us part of that?” Daetrik asked, almost on top of Hardwin. “Or could we have just skipped that, maybe?”

“You could have asked us without killing us first!” Imaari burst out, her voice shrill.

The people gathered behind the Lieutenant exchanged glances, shifting uncomfortably, and he held up his hands as if to hold back their comments. You’re right. Let me, let me go into this more. You have all been chosen for your skill sets. Er, you would have been chosen for your skill sets, but, I don’t think that you’re the group we were expecting.”

Another pause, and more uncomfortable shuffling.

“I--I don’t understand,” Daetrik said at last.

“Yeah, I--I don’t even know what to say to that.” The two men shared a look, and then Hardwin turned, shaking his head. “Fuck this. I’m leaving.”

“Yeah,” Daetrik agreed. “I did my time.”

Imaari stares after them for a moment, torn, then moves to follow as well. He was still the only one who’d given her any reason to trust him.

“Tell me the people who killed us ah the ones weah goin’ afteh, that it wasn’t you, or I’m goin’ with them.” Skeet said.

“Wait, please!” 

Imaari hesitated again, arrested by the genuine pleading in the Lieutenant’s voice, and looked between the people gathered behind her and the men walking away from them. 

“Unless you plan on killin’ me again,” Hardwin called over his shoulder, “I am done with this shit.”

“Please,” the Lieutenant said again. “Please, just wait and  _ listen _ .”

Hardwin and Daetrik shared another look, then turned back to stare at him. 

“Thank you.” The Lieutenant sighed heavily. “Look, I--I can’t--tell you--that,” he said haltingly, shifting his attention to Skeet. It took a moment for the man’s meaning to fully penetrate.

Daetrik’s jaw ticked, and Hardwin growled.

“Because you ah the people who killed us?” Skeet asked, his expression turning dangerous. “Is that what yer sayin’?”

“I’m not saying anything--”

“Because if that’s the case, then I think you owe me.” Skeet continued, speaking over the Lieutenant.

“Just, stay calm, please.”

“Answers, now,” Hardwin said flatly. “Or we’re gone.”

“I said, stay calm!” The Lieutenant’s hand twitched towards his short sword, and all of his men put their hands on their own weapons.

“So it’s like that.” Daetrik said quietly.

Imaari’s eyes bounced between them all, trying to take in the rapid-fire words and turn them into something that made sense. Was she still dreaming?

“Please just listen,” the Lieutenant begged. “I know this is insane. If it had been up to us, none of this would have happened, but there is good reason. Arch is under attack--not from Gavel or Lessen or the Stone Bloods, but from within. We had to look, ah, outside the more traditional structures for our team.”

“It must be pretty big,” Well Dressed observed, “if you had to kill us to establish our cover.”

“So did you kill all those other people too?” Skeet asked. “Did you dig them up?”

The Lieutenant hesitated, looking again at the short man at his elbow.

The man sighed. “There was--” he began, then paused in the same awkward manner the Lieutenant had. “There was another team. They were--ah, unrecoverable.” He sighed again. “That is the source of the confusion, I’m afraid. I’m sorry for that.”

“You mean it wasn’t supposed to be us,” Skeet said, stunned.

“Let me get this straight,” Hardwin said. “You were so desperate for a particular group of people that you murdered dozens of us to get them, but fucked it up so badly that you didn’t even get the people you needed?”

Daetrik shook his head bemusedly. “Bloody hell. It sounds like Arch needs more help than just us.” 

“No shit!” 

Skeet scoffed derisively. “You’re right, bossman, that is stupid.”

“What’s in it for us?” All eyes turned to Well Dressed, whose expression was calculating. He shrugged unapologetically.

“Fucking finally,” the Lieutenant said. “A question I can fucking answer.”

“How about an apology for killing us,” Daetrik suggested. “Might be a good start.”

“Fine. I’m sorry.”

“No, I was wrong. That’s not a good start. Fuck you.” 

Chuckles eased a bit of the tension, and even the Lieutenant smiled. “Fair enough. We got off to a bad start, and maybe this is the wrong play, but we do need help excising the rot in Arch and you’re the ones we got. Each of us has been where you are, waking up in the middle of nowhere after the trauma of being murdered for no gods damned reason. Believe me when I say that I am truly sorry.”

“Wait, this happened to you, too?”

The Lieutenant struggled to answer, words sticking in his mouth, and the small man stepped forward once more.

“I think what the Lieutenant is trying to say is that we...understand, because we have all been...a part of this.” Imaari winced at the way his voice grated in her ears. His words were clipped, more halting than before, as though he struggled to force them out. “We all--we have all gone through...this and we are all still dealing with--with this.” 

“Strange,” Well Dressed said, considering. ”Perhaps if we ask questions that are less direct?”

All eyes turned his way once more, the Lieutenant’s people all staring in open shock.

“How--” The Lieutenant began, then cut himself off with a shake. “Fuck, we’re talking in circles and we don’t have time for any of this,” he said. “All of you, please, we have to get moving. Come with us, and I promise that I will answer all of your questions on the move.”

“Do we have a choice?” Hardwin asked. The Lieutenant’s expression was eloquent. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Well Dressed shrugged. “It has to be better than staying here.”

“You got our stuff, or are we goin’ in our ball gowns?” Skeet asked, gesturing to his dirty prison jumper.

Some of the tension went out of the Lieutenant at the tacit agreement. “You have their things?” he asked the tall man with the tattoos.

“On the boat,” he said, nodding.

“Boat?” Imaari echoed, looking to Hardwin. He looked resigned.

“Thank the Monarch,” the Lieutenant said. “This way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last installment from our first session.


End file.
